Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Breakfast was plentiful. The spread that morning and each that followed was more than Ark’s team could handle. You’d swear Chef is feeding an army of a hundred, not the ten or so guests who float in and out of Ark’s apartment throughout the day.
The wastage was heartbreaking until Chef boxed up the leftovers at the end of the day and had Darius load them into the car that drove me home. The residents of my building have been eating like kings, and although it has only been a week, my uniform is already getting a little tight around the midsection.
When Riley arches a brow, impatiently awaiting an answer, I run my hand down the gown she caught me admiring. “It’s beautiful, but I don’t think it is me.”
“Why?” she asks, her tone neither stern nor angry. She’s more curious than anything.
“Because…”
I want to say that never in my life would I find it suitable to spend eight thousand dollars on a dress, but the pain in Riley’s eyes cuts me off. They’re so bright and confident, yet clouding years of hurt—possibly even decades. My stinginess could cut her down further if she mistakes my reply, so I’d rather veer on the side of caution.
“Because today isn’t about me.” My chest sinks as pain strikes my heart. “It’s about her.”
Unlike mine, Riley’s sigh is vocal when she follows the direction of my gaze. A film crew is documenting Veronika’s visit to Wilfred Iwona’s invitation-only boutique. Her charm and intelligence have had the crew eating out of her palm for the past three hours and me quickly remembering my place.
I’ll be fortunate to carry her purchases, so I don’t need to try them on.
My eyes snap to Riley when she says, “This dress wasn’t designed for Veronika. Her body type is all wrong for this style. Her hips and ass will ruin it.” Her eyes are back on me, heavy and demanding. “You, on the other hand, were made for this dress.”
She plucks said dress from the rack like her bank account won’t cry processing the surcharge for a gown this pricy before she heads for the changing rooms at the back of the boutique.
“Let’s go, Mara. I don’t have all day.” Her tone is snappy, and it has my thoughts drifting to another resident of the Chrysler building for the umpteenth time today.
I haven’t seen Ark in person in almost a week. I’d be a liar if I said I hadn’t missed his presence. An aura like his lights up the room when he enters it, so every room in his once glitzy apartment has been bland and uninviting since Monday morning.
I follow Riley like a puppy does an owner when she hits me with a silent demand for obedience. Her “do as I say” stare replicates Ark’s to a T.
“Wilfred will have a fit.”
Dark hair spills down Riley’s back when she cranks her neck back to face me. “Why?”
I wish she were more than a one-word interrogator. I’m the type who requires prompting to initiate a conversation—a lot of it.
Shame slowly chokes me when Riley refuses to accept my many silent rebuffs. “Because I don’t have the funds to replace the gown if I w-were to wreck it.”
“I’m fine with that.” Her shoulder almost touches her ear as her glance at the outfit I changed into before chaperoning Veronika’s appointment switches her “so what” expression to brilliance. “It isn’t like you don’t have the skills to make this gown what it should be.”
I look at her as if she has a second head. “That dress is perfect.”
A grunt rolls up her chest as she screws up her button nose. “It could be better.”
Now I’m certain Wilfred will have a fit. I took only a handful of online fashion courses, but even I know you never diss a designer on their home turf.
This is Wilfred’s only brick-and-mortar store. People travel across the globe to gain access to her designs in person. She is hugely successful, so I’m surprised by Riley’s level of criticism.
Riley isn’t. She looks smug. Calm. She seems so comfortable in her own skin that I wonder if I read the pain in her eyes wrong. Perhaps her true personality only flourishes when surrounded by like-minded people and not the uber-rich she spends most of her time with.
Eager to discover if my findings are true, I nudge my head to a box of tissues outside the changing room. “Grab the tissues.”
“What for?” Her gag is audible. “If you think a dressing room is a designer’s equivalent of a hairdresser’s salon chair, you are poorly mistaken. I don’t do crying. Ever.” There’s a hint of deceit at the end of her reply.
“I’m not going to cry.” I can’t recall the last time I cried, so I am confident in my assumption. “I just refuse for my pits to get anywhere near that gorgeous material, and I’m sweating s-so much that I’m worried the chicken at lunch was bad.”